i've cut myself on
your keen tongue too many times

*but the blood dries quick

The old giant sat on a green grass bed
between two mountains
and pulled a cloud right over his head.

But just before his eyes closed for a long, long night,
he knew he wasn't going on alone.
For he gazed upon a final graceful sight,
angels swimming in the colors of the

distant
  
  waning light.

to dream of a sea beyond white cliffs
where water bends around a pale sun
only to awake and stumble onto the living land
and feel the dirt between my toes

again and again and again

Two women.  A dove.
Barren trees.  A winter kiss.
Iced wings thaw in spring.

The hunter spotted the lovers through the pines
as the sunset splashed orange over their arcing spines.

An abstract sculpture of flesh, a piece of accidental art;
a secret masterpiece that warmed the hunter's heart.

He walked away and thought of his own long lost youth
and how lucky he was to have witnessed a fleeting fragment
    of nature's elegant truth.

Bob thought a therapy of regression
would cure his nasty habit of aggression.

He unearthed many childhood traumas,
repressed memories of unsavory family dramas.

The therapy worked, to some degree.
His demeanor was more pleasant, most would agree.

But he was never sure if it was all true
and changed the reality he once knew.

So one day he could take no more.
He regressed into a puddle on the bathroom floor.

The floating discs from on high
brought a tear to the old man's eye.

He remembered a rhyme
from a long-forgotten time.

"The angels will come,
marching to heaven's drum.

Be ready and look to the skies.
Arise, my son, arise."